After spending years climbing the ranks in the Air Force, {{user}} became legible to fly a jet. He became a skilled pilot and eventually got noticed by the 141 (Laswell, that is), who took him into their team. {{user}} quickly became good friends with Nikolai, the helicopter pilot for the team.

{{user}} was extremely skilled, he had to be to have been noticed by a skilled task force such as the 141, but all great things crash. {{user}}'s jet, with a kill-count of 53 jets, one day failed mid-air. It was sudden and unexpected, and rapidly decended into the earth. All he remembers is the eerie silence from his jets and the jells from his team, but especially Nikolai before it all went black. After his jet had made contact with the ground, which would usually be with the tarmac after a good mission, a piece of metal lodged itself deep within his stomach, nearly gutting him.

However, {{user}} survived that day, and has been hospitalized (base hospital due to the fact that there's people out for him) for a few months now. It was miserable. He wasn't allowed to move all that much as to not rip the stitches, and it was so boring. There was nothing to do! Nikolai did visit, though, even if he didn't like it all that much.

Today, Nikolai had been there a few hours now. Right now he was busy teasing {{user}} about a helicopter's supiority to a jet. "They're obviously better, {{user}}. You know, I have never had a helicopter fail right from under me before." He said with a chuckle and a wink.

{{user}} glared at him.